It's Christmastime in the City
by KCS
Summary: This insanity is in no way intended to be construed as serious Canonical fiction. You have been warned; read at your own risk. Merry Christmas!
1. Chapter 1

_Just a bit of holiday insanity. Multi-chaptered, odd point of view, entirely ridiculous, and not meant to be attached to Canon as fact. A Merry Christmas to all!_

_Edit: My apologies; I went back to edit this chapter and accidentally added it as a second chapter instead of an edit to the first - sorry about the alert showing up for anyone who has me on alert. _

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I do hereby solemnly swear, if one more self-applauded wag makes another _Christmas Carol_-themed wise remark in my presence, I shall summarily take up the closest letter-opener to hand and impale the man very neatly onto the nearest holly-decked wall. In the spirit of holiday goodwill, of course.

I am strongly disinclined to place much faith in this supposed season of love and unselfishness, however, for the very good reason that a diabolical Fate saw fit nearly sixteen years ago to have me born into a family proudly bearing the surname of Cratchett. I've no idea in heaven or hell what could possibly have possessed my parents to further name me, in a fit of twisted, depraved humour, _Timothy_.

(No doubt, the culprit is that same evil daemon that compelled my father to apprentice me into the infernally boring trade which I now learn against my will, as clerk in a large Savile Row emporium. My sole, extremely wealthy, uncle's owning the business no doubt had much to do with the affair.)

Being the shortest in my class until my body caught up with my brain (which is formidable and indeed my only weapon against the world) in the seventh form, I of course found it expedient to choose a different given name before I became branded forever and anon as "Tiny Tim." My last name is not even spelt the same as my literary so-called namesake, but that regrettably made no difference when speaking to or about my person.

Unfortunately, despite my choosing the very sensible name of _Henry_ to give strangers as my Christian name, the appellation had unhappily stuck from small (literal as well as figurative) childhood. My entire school days were most miserable, spent in one long endeavour to rid myself of literature's mocking shadow.

I believed I had cast off my literary namesake's cloak of holiday gloom when once I grew old enough and tall enough to defend myself in some way other than by virtue of my superiour intelligence against such ill-mannered attacks; then came my apprenticeship under my odious Uncle Harold, as a clerk in this monstrosity of a store he so loves more than his own kith and kin. Why could I not be apprenticed to a bookbinder, or an accountant, or something that requires more brains than finesse in serving customers?

I believe the eve I was told of my impending bondage was the sole and solitary time I had ever seriously considered running off to sea. Or committing a crime worthy enough to have me sent away from home; disgrace was certainly preferable to boredom of that ilk.

Harold Ignacius Rowbottom, sole brother of my late mother (which explains the only reason any woman of even dulled intelligence would marry a man with the last name of _Cratchett_ – no doubt she wished to be rid of her own surname and was not particular which she took instead), is a pompous, arrogant old fool with a better head for figures, both numerically and those of the opposite sex, than he has for propriety and common-sense. He is a brash, loud-spoken, parsimonious man who can be cantankerous as a child of three years when he does not get his own way. His employees carry out his whims and obey his queer humours more out of pity than fear of losing their jobs, though there is that as well.

Being an apprentice and not an employee, I am in no fear of losing wages and in fact would be all too thrilled to quit this miserable existence under him. As such, I pay Uncle the Eccentric no attention save the requisite and allow his underlings to serve him as they will; I am being apprenticed to learn the business, not the details of his personal life (which is disgustingly squalid, considering the amount of profits he makes).

The worst of this undesirable situation, however, is that Uncle has a bizarre loathing for pet names or nick-names and insists upon my using my given name to customers. I have grown resigned to the strange looks, but not to the perverted Dickensian humour this time of the year from buffoons who believe their wit to be of greater extent than my patience.

Uncle was rather upset about the number of customers who complained about my impertinence, though any lawyer would make a plausible case for self-defense. Society always frowns upon children who are more intelligent than their elders, doesn't it?

But there was one gentleman, just this evening, who showed a respectable amount of common-sense as well as common decency – both rarities in this ridiculously mercenary time of year, and well worth noting for being the embodiment of the so-called Christmas Spirit (that of Christmas Present, no doubt, to quote my fateful literary friend); a sea of calm in a mad tempest of irritated men and women all clamouring for attention and service in one of the last remaining days until Christmas Eve.

This chap waited patiently, though I scarce noticed at the time as I was thoroughly occupied in taking orders for engravings from a bevy of young women just slightly my elder, who tittered and whispered about my name when my back was turned and laboured under the impression that I was deaf in addition to being politely disgusted. Once I had managed to all but shove the women into the snow-swirling evening, I mopped my forehead with my handkerchief and slumped back against the wall behind the counter, wishing the infernal holiday were simply _over_.

The rush of the past hour was beginning to peter out as people went home for dinner, and I saw that the same fellow I'd seen before being bombarded by demanding women had wandered over to the stationery department and was poring eagerly over the cases full of fancy fountain pens and writing sets. A strongly-built chap, fairly tall, with a small moustache, and neatly but nattily dressed like a gentleman who did the majority of his shopping in slightly less expensive districts rather than the Bond Street area.

Probably looking for a Christmas gift, then, or else dropping his winnings from a recent gambling venture. Either way, he was at present headed my direction and I now noticed that he walked with a very slight limp and carried the typical black physician's bag. On his way home from a house call, then.

My idle habit (of attempting to escape this tedium by watching people and privately either laughing at their ridiculosity or noticing the details of their appearances) was cut short by the doctor's walking straight up to me, carefully maneuvering round a woman holding the hands of two small children who were both wailing uncontrollably, much to my amusement and the lady's deep mortification. What did she expect, dragging the little blighters all round the store for heaven only knew how many torturous hours?

"Pardon me, lad, but I was wondering if you might have the time to help me."

I looked up in some surprise, not expecting the atypical politeness of the quiet tone (most people this time of year merely bellowed "Clerk!" and expected me to come running at the top of my speed). Part of me rebelled at being called a _lad_ – for I was going on sixteen! – but in all probability the man had not meant it to be insulting. Besides, a customer is a customer, insulting or otherwise, and a pleasant one much better than a demanding one.

"That is what I am here for," I replied with my usual (entirely affected) holiday cheerfulness. _How_ many hours was it until closing time? Not even one, praise the Spirit of Christmas Future. "Looking for a gift, sir?"

"Yes, quite," the gentleman replied, setting his bag down with a careful but very heavy _thud-clink_. I became conscious of two sharp, light eyes from under a trim bowler and made a note to watch my manners; obviously the chap was a gentleman, and likely one who I could talk into buying something if I were equally mannerly.

"For a family member? A patient?" I inquired cautiously, trying to show the proper enthusiasm expected of an employee without seeming rude or pushy (Uncle Harold had had quite enough complaints from that quarter about Gilbert in the jewelry department).

"A friend," the doctor answered me amiably enough, obviously not minding my questions as that cranky old dotard had earlier in the evening, the one who had nearly taken his walking-stick to me when I asked if the earrings he was purchasing were for his grand-daughter (he was "_not_ old enough to have grandchildren, thank'ee very much!" etc., etc.).

"Did you have anything particular in mind?"

"Well…" The fellow rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. "He is rather difficult to buy for, if you know what I mean. Has everything he needs, and refuses to tell anyone something he wants?"

I well knew the type. My eldest brother, Oliver, was the precise same way – most annoying, that attitude. I always just got him woolen socks.

"Yes, indeed, sir," I said briskly, running over the list of customary Christmas gifts in my mind. "We have a fine selection of cigar and cigarette cases…" I stopped as the fellow shook his head pensively.

"He prefers a pipe."

"A new meerschaum, then?"

The moustache twitched in a fleeting fond smile. "No, he likes his old ones too well to use a new one."

"Perhaps something from the stationery department?" I suggested, indicating the newest of the fountain pens and ornate inkwells.

"Mmm…" The physician frowned, obviously thinking deeply. I briefly considered suggesting socks, but thought better of it.

"A popular novel?" Personally I should like nothing better than to get decent reading material (non-Dickens, preferably) for Christmas, for there was no greater gift than the imparting of knowledge. But apparently this elusive "friend" of the doctor's did not appreciate popular reading, for the man began to smile and then to laugh at my suggestion.

"_No_," he chuckled decisively, looking behind me at the neat row of silver flasks, as if debating a purchase of one of them.

"You could always fall back on cuff-links, Doctor," I ventured a bit less timidly with a grin. He pulled a face that reminded me of my younger brother David biting into an under-ripe plum, and we both laughed.

"I should hope I can think of something slightly more original," said he, his eyes lighting up in his amusement. Then he cocked an eyebrow questioningly at me. "You're an observant young fellow." He indicated the bag lying at his feet with an unasked question.

I shrugged, somewhat uneasy at the compliment, if it were such. "I try. Good for business, if not for conversation. Besides, one must do something to break the season's relentless monotony."

The moustache twitched again as the fellow looked round once more, ponderously slowly. "I say, have you anything in the way of walking-sticks?" he asked suddenly, turning back to face me.

"Yes, indeed, Doctor. Just round this corner here." I motioned the man to follow me a few yards away.

He hefted the black bag in his right hand and followed on my heels into the accessories department, where I paused at a rack of fine canes and other sticks, most more for ornament than heavy use. I plucked a fine silver-tipped walking stick off the wall, and the doctor dropped his bag once more and took it from me, hefting it in his hand expertly – almost as if gripping a weapon.

Odd. Very odd, without a doubt.

"It's a fine piece, but have you anything heavier?"

"How heavy?" I asked warily, very much not liking the defensive position he was adopting with the current merchandise – looked altogether too much like wielding a single-stick than casual examination of quality.

"Weighted, with lead or something similar, perhaps?"

I took a step back as he asked the question, with an innocent face entirely bereft of any awareness that he had just in essence asked me if we carried lethal weapons for holiday gifting to friends and family.

Whilst I was fumbling for an appropriate answer that did not entail asking him if this friend of his were a murderer or extortionist or a combination of both, he must have registered my hesitation for he looked up and caught sight of my face. Then the fellow laughed and nodded reassuringly, replacing the stick on the rack carefully.

"It is not what you're thinking, my lad," he chuckled, looking very much safer without the cane in his hand. "My friend has a dangerous occupation and occasionally finds himself in a situation where he must defend himself, that is all. Perfectly legal and above board, I assure you."

I must have still looked a bit doubtful, for he continued in what was no doubt meant to be a reassurance. "Were I purchasing a weapon rather than a gift, I shouldn't be browsing a store in Savile Row, now would I?"

Good point, but it was still deucedly odd. Personally I still believe the man to be slightly or more than slightly off, bedside physician or no. And the way he handled that cane…no way in all London would I want to get on that chap's bad side.

Bizarre.

"I…suppose not, sir," I managed, though I kept the nearby hat-rack between me and the fellow for precautionary measures. "You're wanting something more like a Penang-lawyer, then?"

"Yes, that would be good – heavier if you have it, though," he replied too cheerfully, pulling out a small pocket-watch and glancing at the time.

"I shall have to go in the back and look, Doctor, and it may take some time," I informed the man. I pulled out a pad of paper from behind the register and began scribbling upon it the necessary information for a reminder.

"That is fine, as I have an engagement in a half-hour," the gentleman replied, pulling on his gloves once more.

"Any particular height you would like, sir?" I asked.

"As tall as you can make it – he's well over six feet."

"Right. Anything else?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a swordstick in that fine collection, would you?"

I accidentally shut my hand in the pencil drawer and gave a small yelp. The physician glanced up at me in concern, but I waved him away frantically, not wanting the man anywhere _near_ me. A _swordstick_?! Why did all the escaped homicidal maniacs come to _me_, and not Gilbert or Jacobson or Higgins?

"I…I don't believe we have one, Doctor, but I can check," I stammered, carefully trying to peer inconspicuously into those sharp eyes for signs of madness. I saw none, but then again Aunt Hermoine had given no signs of being over the edge until she walked into breakfast one morning, calmly announced herself to be Lucretia Borgia, and promptly fell over from self-poisoning, an overdose of laudanum. This doctor – if he were really a doctor – could be mad as Bedlam's finest and I not know it until it was too late.

I took another gulp of air as I continued to scribble information down on my notepad; including a thorough description of the fellow in case something happened and the police needed an accurate depiction of the man's looks and appearance.

"Right," I breathed at last, endeavouring to piece my nerve back together. "I shall have an answer for you when next you stop by, Doctor…?" I stopped expectantly.

"Mm?" The fellow hastily turned from the large, locked glass case he had been avidly perusing the contents of and turned his sharp eyes back to me. "Oh, of course. Watson, John Watson."

I dutifully wrote the name down on the paper and made a mental note to locate the stick – or murder weapon – before we closed up shop tonight as I would doubtless forget if I waited until the morrow.

"Anything else I can help you find, Dr. Watson?" I queried as I attempted to surreptitiously nudge the man toward the door – ten minutes to closing time, only ten minutes…

"No, thank you very much. You've been most helpful," the chap said courteously. "I shall be back late tomorrow…if we aren't out all day chasing that forger down the river, that is," he muttered this last under his breath, and I again looked askance at the man. Before I could edge away from the peculiar fellow he straightened up, pulling himself visibly out of his thoughts, and smiled beatifically at me.

"And your name, lad?" he inquired with curiousity but not with any apparent malice.

Despite the fact, I instinctively cringed. Professional courtesy was professional courtesy, however, and I managed to paste my holiday-selling smile upon my face and grind out a muttered "Cratchett. Timothy Cratchett," with my eyes belligerently _daring_ the man to make a comment regarding my nomenclatural curse.

I received one raised eyebrow, and the moustache twitched again. "I…am sorry," he offered with a slight grin, not at all poking fun but rather sympathetic – a fresh, novel sensation after a rather long and definitely un-Christmasy day.

I breathed a sigh of relief that made the doctor laugh knowingly. "You shall hear no Dickens quotations from me, you may rest assured," he added, mashing his bowler down on his head and buttoning up his overcoat in a fluid, rapid five seconds.

"Thank you, Doctor," I returned, folding my arms and leaning back against the counter to watch from a distance. The fellow's estimation had just gone up tenfold in my eyes for that last bit of common (or was it uncommon?) sense; perhaps he was not a complete Bedlamite, merely peculiar.

As the fellow vanished into the glittering snow outside after a cheerful wishing me the compliments of the season, my eyes traveled to the glass case he had been inspecting before giving me his name earlier, and goosebumps stood on my arms and the back of my neck – and not from the chill of the outside. I shivered almost compulsively, wondering why it was my poor luck to land such eccentric customers.

He'd been looking so eagerly at a collection of _antique firearms??_

I did not realise it was possible for a customer's Christmas shopping to be more bizarre than this doctor's had been – that is, not until the _next_ evening, when an entirely different individual descended on the shop to break up the monotony of my night in an even more peculiar fashion.

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_To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

My saintly mother, God rest her soul, had a somewhat annoying habit of swearing by adages better left to old spinsters than sensible mothers of four, but one such maxim she was overly fond of was that _bad things always come in threes_.

I believe the last time I heard her vocalise that particular saying was after David was born, bringing the total of screaming lads in the house to a trio. Personally, after the birth of my sister Estella a year later I was of the opinion that one sister was quite enough for any person's maintaining a state of sanity; no need for three, thank you very much. But perhaps there was an element of truth in what she said; three Spirits of Christmas, for example, are surely more than the average allotment of ethereal sightings allowed to the average corporeal.

I do hope that Mother was incorrect in her steadfast assertion of those old proverbs' veracity, however, for I want no such _third_ bizarre holiday shopper as the first and second that have seen fit to grace me with their presences these last two days (I am beginning to wonder if perhaps I am not haunted as was Ebenezer Scrooge in that infernal storybook). However, they are both due to return here tomorrow, and I dearly hope that _three is the charm_ (another of Mother's advisory axioms) and that I shall be hereafter rid of them and all such like them.

The doctor of Monday evening was queer enough in his own way, but this chap tonight…there are no satisfactory words to describe him, at least none that I could use in the company of gentlefolk.

I had only just returned from suppering with Gilbert at the café down the street – nothing like piping hot shepherd's pie on a night cold enough to freeze Lord Nelson's ears off in Trafalgar Square – and found Higgins waiting for me in my department when I returned. I had while tramping about been at least half-frozen and was now wishing for some of Uncle's Columbian coffee (which he of course refused to allow anyone access to besides his parsimonious self, and heaven knew the drink would never be able to thaw his soul sufficiently!).

"Fellow was by here earlier ta see you." Percival Higgins is only two years my senior in age but at least three years my junior by way of quick-wittedness; which is why Uncle assigned him to the children's clothing department; neither the little ones nor the deluded parents who believe their darling angels would love new sweaters and undergarments for Christmas are intelligent enough to realise their clerk's diminutive mental acumen.

"Oh?" I expertly dodged a (extremely) heavy-set woman who was dragging a squalling five-year-old behind her, and then was forced to hop over a wandering wooden car that had escaped the toy section and was meandering merrily along the floorboards in a malicious attempt to trip anyone who stepped in its path – or road, I supposed the case was.

"Mmhm. Doctor fellow. Tall, moustached, thirtyish," Higgins drawled laconically. He handed me a small paper on which he had written the name, together with a scribbled note saying that the Doctor would be back the following evening to see the walking-stick I had set aside for him, that he had a late house-call tonight and was unable to wait for my return.

Fine by me; one fewer slightly-mad customer to deal with never did harm to any poor clerk at Christmastide.

"Very good. Thank you, Higgins," I replied patiently, attempting to dislodge his grinning person from my department as his perpetual smile was beginning to annoy me. Besides, such brainless joviality belonged in the children's department and _not_ mine.

"See the new Christmas tree over in Jacobson's department?"

"_Yes_, Higgins." Why don't you go back and look at it again if you love it so dearly, Higgins?

"Guess I'll be gettin' back to my department, then," he continued, bending to pick up the errant wooden car and giving it a loving pat. "These are really popular this year with the little 'uns, you know?" he asked over his shoulder by way of intelligent parting conversation.

I shook my head and set about organizing the register and the surrounding papers before I was flooded with the post-dinner crowd. Three days until Christmas, and one would think that every store and boutique in town were sold out of gifts, were one to judge simply by the way people have been behaving. I suppose I should be grateful that I am not working on Bond Street; from all accounts the traffic there is simply murder.

I was accosted not three minutes later by two gentlemen desiring to purchase cigars for their employers and being entirely too fussy about the manner of packaging the disgusting things were packed in. After being set upon by a young couple seeking a gift for the lady's father, two young women wanting my opinion upon which colour of neck-tie would look best with the waistcoats they had chosen for their husbands (do I look like a fashion plate myself? That is most definitely _not _my department, literally and figuratively), and a man who obviously despised the entire affair of Christmas and all its fripperies and snapped up the first thing I suggested as a present to his brother (other than socks), I breathed a long sigh and leant back for a moment's peace before the next onslaught arrived.

It was then that I noticed him.

'Twould have been rather hard _not_ to do so, as he positively towered over ninety percent of the people in the emporium, myself included. I do believe it is thoroughly unfair for Nature to have bequeathed upon some people an excess of six feet in height and to have left the rest of us rather under the mark. It simply is _not right_.

This man was conspicuous not just because of his height, but also due to his expression, which was one of absolute intense discomfort…as if he had just walked with the toothache into a dentist's waiting-room instead of into a festive, bustling Christmas shopping centre. I wanted desperately to laugh but thought better of it. The fellow did look so utterly miserable that it was by far the most comical picture I had seen all the day, other than the excitement of this morning when Gilbert dropped a seventy-guinea watch and then stepped upon it, cracking the crystal in three places. _His_ face was highly entertaining to onlookers, though I am certain he found it considerably less amusing.

My counter was still momentarily unoccupied, thank heaven, leaving me free to watch the man as he sidled along the wall, edging behind and around and between racks and furniture and decorations, and doing his utmost to not touch any of the laughing, jostling throng that surged round him in a sea of brightly-wrapped, be-ribboned-and-bowed humanity – all the while with an expression of supreme disgust adorning his features, which were angular and striking.

I watched in amusement as he darted through a gap in the crowd like a goldfish after a water-bug, nearly making it to my counter before being bowled over by a rotund man in a screaming green plaid waistcoat, who was hurrying toward the door with a three-foot wrapped parcel in his fat little hands. The gentleman – for I could see from his very fashionable dress that he was indeed a gentleman – glared after the fat fellow as he burbled an apology and hurried on his merry way. Then he turned and stalked over to a rack of fine gold and silver tie-pins. For a moment the man studied the items with languid disinterest and then wandered aimlessly to the next rack, that of silk handkerchiefs in various prints.

He gave an exclamation of disgust, though I doubted the expressive noise was aimed at the merchandise, but his next actions were blocked from my view by a throng of demanding customers who apparently refused to read the signs that clearly told in the Queen's English where different departments were located within the emporium and instead expected me to leave my post and direct them to the various places of interest. I am a clerk, not a tour guide, and if they could not read perfectly clear signs then they needed to not be out and about the city at this hour, but rather at home with their primers.

I did not tell them that. Though I wanted to, in no uncertain terms. _Honestly_, the idiocy of the modern human race astounds me at times.

By the time I returned to my counter, the tall thin gentleman was still wandering around, occasionally knocking into the odd customer and then muttering no more than courtesy demanded as an apology, all the while looking awfully ill-at-ease and in absolute pain at the activity of holiday gifting.

A fellow scarcely older than I paused in front of me, obstructing my view, and after blushing to the roots of his blonde hair asked me if I could tell him where the engagement ring department was. I sighed and pointed the young fool in Gilbert's direction and then turned round again – to discover that the tall gentleman had appeared and was dolefully inspecting the items for display upon the counter in front of me.

I recognised the evident symptoms of a man who despised shopping for anyone, and especially shopping while not knowing what to purchase as a gift. In my opinion, the worst part about this season is the obligation that people must show their appreciation for friends and family in some tangible, monetary way rather than simply showing a greater amount of love or unselfishness toward said family and friends, something that would have far more lasting consequences than baubles and trinkets, in this pecuniary world.

The gentleman was massaging his temples with an expression indicative of an approaching migraine (another common holiday-shopping symptom I have noticed), and finally I took pity on the poor fellow and leant over the counter towards him, adopting my best professional air.

"Might I help you find something, sir?" said I pleasantly.

For the first time he looked directly at me, and the sharpness of his grey gaze fair unnerved me, I freely admit – he looked rather too potentially explosive to be someone to comfortably talk to up close. His words, however, were anything but intimidating and the feeling of unease passed as quickly as it had come in favour of amusement at the man's expense.

"Find something…yes, that would be very much welcomed," he muttered absently, glancing around at the thronging crowd of men and women in holiday finery with great unease.

"A gift, I presume?"

"Why else would I be wandering about in this…_zoo_?" the man growled. I watched in wary amusement mingled with a bit of horror as he glared ferociously at a cherubic little fellow of about five years, who was wandering by holding an oversized, half-eaten chocolate likeness of what I could only presume had once been a snowman, before his head was jaggedly bitten off.

"Erm…right," I replied cautiously, for though the sentiment (or rather lack of it) was fairly atypical of holiday shoppers I for one wholeheartedly agreed with it, after a very long week of demanding customers and irritable family members. "A gift, then. What sort of present did you have in mind, sir?"

Those piercing eyes went unaccountably blank, and the fellow blinked twice as if processing what I said very slowly – which could not be the case, as no man with eyes like that is anything short of genius. "Erm…any sort, I suppose…" He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I've really no idea, at any rate. I say, is it always this ridiculously chaotic in here?"

I grinned, watching a fight break out between two rather feisty grandmothers over the last toy trumpet in Jacobson's department. "No, only at the holidays. You should be here on Christmas Eve, sir – I'd wager that the Afghan war zones are quieter than this place is on that night."

The fellow's thin lips quirked to one side, as if he were going to smile but couldn't quite make it due to a lack of practice. Then his face fell disconsolately, as he obviously remembered the reason why he was standing in front of me. "Yes…I need a gift," he stated abruptly.

I nodded.

"A Christmas gift," he added helpfully, as if I had not realised the fact by now.

Peculiar fellow, but from the sharpness of his dress he obviously had the money to spend if he so chose; who was I to judge his eccentricities?

I nodded again.

"Perhaps I could better aid you if you were to tell me whom the present is for, sir?" I nudged.

"For?" The man blinked as if coming out of a daydream and frowned as a raucous burst of laughter sounded through the emporium. "Oh…yes, yes of course. Well, it is a gift for a friend, you see."

That narrowed the field _immensely_.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and merely sighed patiently, having dealt with this sort of thing rarely (thank heaven) but with fair predictability this close to Christmas – the time we appropriately termed the _Twelve Days of Panic_, in which most people were either so desperate to simply purchase a gift that they were rather uncaring what said gift was, so long as it was prettily wrapped with a large bow; or else they would disregard the rest of the panicking world and debate exactly what the perfect gift was from opening until closing time, without a nudge from your friendly store clerk.

These last types of customers invariably ended the evening with the rest of the populace standing chafing behind them, either threatening harm to the customer for holding up the line or harm to mine for allowing said customer to stand there and debate aloud which colour of necktie to purchase for his son or grandson or nephew or dustman's third cousin.

"Male or female friend?" I prodded helpfully.

I'd no idea what I had said that could possibly induce such horror, but the man's thin face flushed scarlet in a sudden scandalised expression of revulsion. "Male, of course!" he exclaimed in disgust, casting a distasteful look at an amorous young couple who swept by on their way out the door, peeking optimistically above the frame in hopes of espying mistletoe.

I pinched my nose in exasperation – did a fellow have to physically _pry_ the information out of this chap? "How close a friend, sir? That could make a difference as to what you might care to purchase," I sighed slowly, attempting to rein in my impatience; no other customer was in sight, and I was in no hurry to be rid of the fellow. Yet.

Again the fellow peered blankly at me. "How close?" he repeated. He ran a finger around his collar as if nervous and then backed hurriedly away from the counter when an elderly man dawdled along the glass expanse, peering into the cases eagerly and entirely oblivious to the people and conversation around him.

"Yes," I answered over the balding fellow's head as he ambled on his merry way. The tall gentleman shuffled back to the counter as I continued. "As in, merely an acquaintance?"

"No, rather more than that…I think," he said hastily, eyeing a fine writing set in a soft, velvet-lined case that sat on my counter, reserved for another customer.

"A close friend, then."

"I…I suppose one might say that, yes," he muttered uneasily. I noticed that the man continually glanced about as if fearing to be overheard by someone. Were such a notion completely incongruous with the fellow's (over)confident nature, I should have judged him to be a bit on the paranoid side. Honestly, the chap was most bizarre.

"Have you any idea at all what you would like to get him?" I asked patiently.

"None."

I nearly sniggered but stopped myself only just in time. The fellow sighed and fixed me with a look that was half-helpless, half-annoyed, and both parts equally amusing. I was about to suggest a cheap gift when my customer leant across the counter, dropping his sharp voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. I inclined my head, for he was considerably taller than I (another reason I strongly dislike the man), and listened with some wariness.

"You are obviously a bright lad, my boy – tell me something," said he, apparently quite seriously and with an earnest intensity that I found a bit strange. "Exactly…exactly how does one go about the purchasing of a Christmas gift?"

I resisted the urge to plant my face either into my hand or against the sharp metal of the cash register. He could not be serious.

Why, why, _why_ did all the…_nutters_ is the only sufficiently vivid word that comes readily to mind…come to _me_?

* * *

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

"How does one go about getting a Christmas present for someone?"

I nearly choked but managed to keep my composure with a superhuman effort; the man could not be serious! But the fellow's sharp gaze was far too intense to agree with the notion of his pulling my leg…this was simply too peculiar.

"Erm…you choose it, and then pay for it at the counter?" I ventured somewhat dryly.

"No, no, I mean…how does one decide _what_ to get for a person?" he asked, shooing off my veiled sarcasm with an absent wave of his thin hand.

I chewed my lower lip in some surprise, for the man had to be thirty or so, possibly a bit younger – but surely before now he had had occasion to purchase a Christmas present??

"Have you not done much Christmas shopping, sir?" I inquired cautiously. I had no wish for the fellow to think I was being nosy, but my curiousity would not let this interesting matter drop unasked.

"For a brother, yes, but never for a friend." The uncomfortable mutter was accompanied by a small squirm, for lack of a better word; he was behaving for all the world like a truant schoolboy being called up before the headmaster.

Never? I took in this piece of information and digested it slowly. After only a moment I rejected the thought of madness, for the fellow was sharp as a hypodermic needle and obviously brilliant – though entirely clueless in this particular department. Not mad, then. But surely individuals as friendless as Scrooge himself did not exist outside of literature?

"Truly," the man pressed, "I have done everything within my power to discover what might be appropriate or welcomed in such situations, but even my formidable powers have come up blank in deducing what might be a suitable Christmas present for him. I've even had him followed for the last three days…"

I took a step back, feeling my eyebrows move toward my hair and my skin creep ever so slightly, as if a wet earthworm were crawling down my spine. _Followed?_ What was the man, some sort of psychopath?

"…three days, but the lads couldn't get into the places he frequented, and besides he finally caught Bert at his shadowing the other night…" The man was continuing to ramble to himself, either oblivious to my increasing suspicion or else, to use another of Mother's favourite sayings, simply off his rocker. I suspected more the former.

"And so I have come up against a complete brick wall in that respect," he finished, his tone rising in exasperation. He unexpectedly brought the flat of his hand down on the counter with enough irritated force to make me jump and a nearby music-box chime suddenly into a plinking rendition of _Good King Wenceslas_.

"Perhaps, sir," I began cautiously, attempting to make my tone more calm than his (for he had drawn undue attention my direction with that physical manifestation of his frustrated state), "if you told me something about him, I might be able to suggest a suitable present – unless you would like to just give him money and be done with the matter?"

The fellow's grey eyes lit up suddenly in pathetic hopefulness, and he bent his head to my eye level. "Is that acceptable in these situations?" he asked me confidentially.

"Frankly, it is usually frowned upon as being the rather unsophisticated and impersonal method of gifting," I admitted. The poor chap's face fell miserably. "Then," I went on, "tell me about him, and perhaps together we may come up with something, eh?"

He nodded in reluctant agreement and glared a melting hole into the music box as it tinkled and ground slowly to a stop halfway through the second verse, leaving the "poor man" still gathering his winter fuel for eternity (or at least until someone else started up the infernal things). "Well," he began, tapping a long finger upon his pursed lips, "he is…about my age, slightly older, actually…he is a doctor, and a veteran…and he does a good deal of writing…"

"Perhaps a fountain pen or writing set?" I suggested. "We have a fine collection of pens, stationery, and the like?" A dismal frown. "A blank journal? We've a leather-bound collection that is very popular about now."

"But he already possesses a surfeit of such things – they turn up everywhere in the entire house; including the most undesirable places, like on the stairs and in with my collection of animal teeth and claws," he protested grumpily.

I gulped a bit uneasily…was the fellow a taxidermist, or just an eccentric? I attempted to put away the disturbing mental pictures that my mind was conjuring up as to what his _other_ collections might possibly be.

"You said he's a doctor? Perhaps a new doctor's bag?" I inquired desperately. I was running low on both suggestions and patience by this point with the curious fellow.

"His own is barely used, though." This with a low growl, showing that his frustration obviously was increasing by the minute.

I winced as an infant close by us suddenly began shrieking for all it was worth (which in my opinion could not be much), and a sudden crash told me that the child or one of its hellions of brothers had toppled over the stack of wooden blocks in the children's section, sending randomly assorted letters clattering across the floor in a wooden stampede.

The fellow opposite me barely noticed the cascade of blocks, however, for he was gnawing his thin lips anxiously, his desperation for a suitable gift idea increasing exponentially the more seconds that passed. I was forced to wonder what type of man was only now, in his late twenties, shopping for a close friend's Christmas gift for the first time.

I was startled, and very much entertained, when the fellow in question erupted into a quiet but very clear streak of French swearing and punctuated it with a moan of absolute hopelessness.

"Perhaps a set of books, sir? Most people enjoy getting new reading material," I suggested, my irritation with the peculiar fellow slowly melting into a sort of pity for his obvious disconsolation.

"I suppose." His whole face assumed a most mournful aspect. "But that is so…"

"Impersonal?" I supplied understandingly.

He nodded, and his eyes contracted and intensified as they flitted from object to object until I squirmed reflexively, hoping that piercing gaze would not be directed at me; I would have been willing to believe it could pierce straight through bone and skin and anything else that got in its path.

"Confound it, if I only knew what the devil the man _wanted_!" the fellow exclaimed. "I _know_ he was in here recently, Bert saw him just last night in some of these shops along here!"

Whoever Bert was. "Then perhaps I saw him as well, Mr. – " I stopped hopefully, for it was always easier to do business with a man knowing his name. But I did not want him thinking I was attempting to be rude due to my unfortunately younger age; why the devil one must be politer as a child than as an adult is entirely beyond me. Besides, I truly did not want to tell him mine in return, thank you very much.

"Mmph," the chap grunted distractedly. He had apparently picked up a nearby set of leather-bound folios, and only an instant later realised he had been spoken to. Finally he sighed and turned back to me. "Oh. Holmes, Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes, then, I work this same counter here by the door every weekday evening – perhaps I saw him," I said sensibly.

I stepped backward and hit my back on the wall (and near impaled myself upon the hooks holding the rolls of brown paper, blast it) as the fellow nearly pounced upon me in his eagerness. I was uncomfortably reminded of Oliver's pet garter snake and how it struck without warning upon unsuspecting people's toes when hungry.

"Did you?" he demanded. He was fairly wriggling in suppressed nervous energy, his fingers drumming on the countertop in a most annoying rapid pattern.

"I would be able to tell you, had you described him yet to me," I drawled.

"Oh. Yes, yes of course. Well, as I said, about thirty, a few inches shorter than I, light brown hair and a moustache, walks like a soldier but he limps on the right leg. Usually wears a brown overcoat and bowler…you've seen him?!"

He must have noticed the recognition in my eyes, for the description matched perfectly with that bizarre fellow I had met only last evening across this same counter. A doctor…was this strange chap one of his mental patients, then? That would be a logical explanation to cover the facts…

"I believe so, yes – what is the man's name?" I asked, scrambling round for the paper Higgins had left me earlier.

"Watson, John Watson," the Holmes fellow replied eagerly, peering at me with more impatience than David and Estella would possess upon watching the chimney flue on Thursday night.

"Yes, actually – he was just here last night," I declared, triumphantly holding up the paper bearing the correct name. "And he's supposed to be coming back tomorrow to see about an item I set aside for him."

Mr. Holmes's face had animated into an enormously excited grin as he eagerly absorbed this information. "Listen, my lad, do you think you could…well…pump him for information, so to speak, tomorrow when he returns?" he asked with an attitude of deathly conspiracy.

I eyed the fellow a bit suspiciously – why could he not do so on his own, if the chap really was a friend as he said?

"Information regarding a Christmas present?"

"Yes, of course."

This entire affair was too strange. This doctor fellow wanting to purchase lethal weapons last night, this man having him followed for three days, ostensibly to find out what he wanted for Christmas…

Close friend, my eye. I smelt a rat – no one could _possibly_ be as bizarre as those two, not in real life.

"I shall of course recompense you for your trouble, if you could," he added hastily, seeing my hesitation.

"I'm having no part of any of this!" I made certain I was well away from the counter and those strong-looking hands, for I had no idea what this man's true character was like and I'd no desire to find myself on the receiving end of it.

"Oh, come now." One bushy dark eyebrow rose into a sharp arch. "Somehow I doubt apprentices are paid these days, and it's a chance for you to make some honest money, and quickly too. All above board and proper, I assure you. Now what about it?"

My wariness at the whole strange situation melted into the background, effaced by my startled wonder at how the deuce he could tell I was an apprentice and not an employee (for I looked every bit eighteen or older and had fooled many a man before him). The trick was beyond me, but apparently he had done it.

"How on earth did you know –"

"The same way I know that you've two brothers and one sister, that your maternal uncle owns this emporium, that your favorite subjects are mathematics and history, that you would much rather be preparing for law school than minding the store here, that you are overly fond of chocolates and oranges, and that you spent your last week's holiday in Brighton, Master Timothy," said he casually.

I felt my chin hit my stiff collar, and the man laughed at my amazement – who the devil did he think he was, poking into my private life in that manner? And how had he discovered those things - including my name? There was no legal way he could have found out those things about me!

I said as much, quite angrily, but only elicited another laugh from the fellow, the first amusement I had seen from him all evening. He proceeded to blather some nonsense about it being a chain of logic he drew from my trouser-knees, boots, and my small knapsack behind the counter, which I ignored as the very idea was far too absurd even for consideration. I folded my arms and glared at the man, for I did not appreciate being made the object of some stupid parlour trick, but this only served to further widen his infernal grinning.

I was about to tell the man where he could go with his invasive "deductions," customer courtesy be _hanged_, when suddenly a uniformed bobby came tearing through the door, accompanied by a ragged little beggar in a shredded jacket and equally ragged shoes. The small urchin pointed our direction and the constable rushed through the merry crowd, reaching us within a matter of seconds.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" the child bellowed at the top of his healthy young Cockney lungs before they reached us, and the gentleman instantly whirled about to seek out the source of the shouting.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir," the constable briefly touched his helmet and gasped, breathless from an apparent run, "but the Doctor said for you to come at once, sir, if he wasn't out o' the 'ouse in ten minutes, and this lad 'ere says it's been all o' twenty –"

I was somewhat startled to see the flush of the Holmes fellow's face pale suddenly into a fishy white. "I told him to wait for me, or at least for Lestrade!" he snapped viciously, shoving a thin hand back into its glove with an audible and angry _thworck_. "Blast it, this was the only time I could get to myself!"

"The Inspector's comin', Mr. 'Olmes, but the Doctor wouldn' wait no longer if there was a 'ninjured woman in the 'ouse, 'e said," the filthy little boy interjected eagerly, and I was surprised to notice that he rather unusually paid no mind to the festivities around him that would fascinate most normal children.

"I'll _kill_ him," the tall fellow snarled (I hoped he did not mean it literally but it would not have surprised me; at least he would have the constable as witness to the deed if he did so) and bolted for the door without another word, leaving me staring in absolute bewilderment after him and wondering if I would be forced to eject the street urchin before Uncle Dearest had an apoplectic fit at a Savile Row emporium being invaded in such a manner by vagabonds, even small and relatively innocent ones.

I was not forced to do so, as the child took off flying after the strange Holmes chap, followed closely by the bobby – the strange trio drawing the attention of everyone within eyesight. For a moment all festivities stopped in the well-bred shock and horror that someone would _dare_ invade the jovial holiday spirit with something so rude as a policeman, and then in just as swift an instant the scene reverted to how it had been before the night's strange events and time returned to normal speed once more.

I've no idea who this gentleman was, besides a very strange and apparently hitherto friendless fellow. And what connection has he to the bizarre physician whom I was visited with Monday evening?

I have a horrible shivery feeling crawling down my spine again that I shall in all probability find the answers to those questions tomorrow, unfortunately…

* * *

_To be continued._


	4. Chapter 4

I was not at all surprised to see, about an hour (one more hour of temporary insanity!) before closing time, the tall fellow – Holmes, his name was if I remember correctly among the dozens of customers I am _privileged_ to serve in a day's time – re-entering the emporium and looking even less happy (which is to say at this point, somewhere between mildly irked and absolutely miserable) than he had last night.

I lost sight of him as even his towering height was swallowed up by the steel-jaws of men's clothing racks. My attention then was fully occupied by a matronly woman in a garish burgundy velvet gown and far too much perfume for my liking or easy respiration, who instantly commenced cooing over me and prattling to the effect that she would _so_ like to meet my Uncle Harold, and isn't his oh-so-lovely store (meaning the money he makes from it) so wonderful, and wasn't I just the most adorable nephew anyone (meaning she wanted to become an aunt; pardon me whilst I attempt to control my rising nausea) ever had, and could I maybe introduce the two of them at the Christmas party at Lord whatever-his-stupidly-long-name-was's house in Westminster, etc., etc., insert random blather of your choice, etc., etc.

An indication of how badly I wanted to be rescued from the self-professed siren was in the fact that I fairly flew at the Holmes fellow when he sidled noiselessly up to the counter, viewing the woman blocking his path with the detached air of a scientist scrutinising a peculiar mutant specimen.

"Yes, certainly, Mrs. Westlake, I shall tell Uncle all about it," I hastily said with a perfunctory bow. "Now I must beg your pardon, but I do have a customer to attend to." _Please don't hang around, please don't hang around_…

The woman (for I shan't call her a lady if she wasn't) gushed over me in a final deluge of simpering before taking herself off to look at the women's clothing (the larger sizes, naturally). Mr. Holmes stared after her for a moment and then turned to me, raising a half-mocking eyebrow.

I dared him with my eyes to even _start_ with me. I was very definitely _not_ in the mood, and there was still the Christmas Eve rush tomorrow to deal with; I was in desperate need of keeping my sanity at all costs for another twenty-four hours. The man merely smiled knowingly and leant forward over the counter with an air of confidentiality, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"Don't let your uncle marry that woman; she's been wed four times in the last ten years, and her husbands all met rather convenient 'accidental' deaths," said he, unmistakably quite in earnest.

If the odd fellow could somehow find out I spent my last week of holidays in Brighton, I supposed he had some (legal or illegal) way of knowing the woman was a fortune-hunter and/or a murderess. Either way, I duly noted the fact for Uncle's perusal at his leisure, and immediately I felt a bit of pleasure that I was not mistaken in my revulsion of the old trout.

"I must apologise for running off last evening, quite literally," the man went on. Hum, he could be polite enough when he so chose – I knew he was a gentleman, albeit an eccentric one. "There was…something of an emergency that came up."

"So I gathered," I replied dryly.

"Yes, I thought you might," he muttered absently, and commenced tapping a long finger against his lips in obvious contemplation.

"Still undecided on a gift, sir?"

"Quite. And I've only a half-hour before I'm to meet the man down the street for supper…I don't suppose you have any more suggestions? I freely admit to being – "

I stared aghast (along with a passing family of four, the mother gasping in horror and the father covering his little twins' ears as best he could with only two hands) as my customer broke off his sentence via a very loud and very vehement profanity. He stared at the entrance of the shop in what I could only assume was dismay.

"Sir?"

"How the _blazes_ did he end up here?" Mr. Holmes moaned, looking very much as if he would like to either be sick (which I quite definitely did not want in my department, thank you very much) or to sink through the floor like a ghost and disappear (which while it would be good publicity would probably not be beneficial for the emporium's reputation as a whole).

"How did who end up here?"

"That fellow!" Mr. Holmes pointed rather rudely at a gentleman slowly and carefully ambling his way through the horrendously bustling crowd – and I recognised him as well, the peculiar doctor fellow I had dealt with Monday evening. And the same chap for whom this man was shopping for a present; my customer was obviously a novice at the entire secret shopping and gifting idea, and he was now throwing himself into a blind dead panic over a matter that could have been rectified with a bit of easy fibbing and a decent poker face.

This was too hysterical, though Mr. Holmes did not appear to think so as much as I.

"He cannot see me here!" the man hissed frantically, casting his eyes about in every direction for a way out of the melee and finding himself hemmed in on every side by smiling and cheery customers. A wild look suddenly lit in his eyes, that of a trapped animal panicking against an approaching hunter.

I was about to suggest he disappear behind a nearby hat-rack (for with _his_ build it would easily hide him completely) but stopped with a sudden cry, completely dumbfounded; for the man cast one more frantic look about as the Doctor politely edged his way through the throng toward our counter, and then he bolted swifter than I could blink around me, skidding to a stop and crouching down _behind the counter_!

"**Oi!** You can't do that!" I was absolutely aghast, for his behaviour violated every store policy known to man (and probably a half-dozen unwritten laws of professionalism as well) and Uncle would have me out on my ear were I to allow it.

Besides the ethical factor, there was also that the gentleman looked absolutely ridiculous, rather like an enormous black spider, all legs and arms, hiding from a housewife with a dust-rag. Despite my horror at the man's blatant disregard for policy and protocol, I dearly wanted to laugh at the odd fellow for his childish antics.

"I shan't touch anything, I promise," he hissed, his pale face flushed with the rapid exertion of the last minute, "but I cannot allow him to see me in here!"

"And I cannot let you behind this counter!" I retorted with equal vehemence. The nerve of the man was appalling! Obviously he was completely unaccustomed to not getting his way in matters.

"I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, no harm will come of my sitting here." The fellow appeared to be more pleading now than anything else, and I nearly laughed but stopped myself just in time; it would not do to go over to his side, at least visibly.

"You know there are easier ways of making a Christmas gift a surprise!" I glared down at the huddled-up chap and received for my efforts a scowl that near melted the glass in the case beside me. A finely-dressed, white-haired gentleman passing by the counter paused to cast me a dubious look, no doubt wondering why I was talking to the floor beside me and not to the customers clustering annoyingly about.

"Lad, you simply don't understand!" Mr. Holmes moaned, placing his head in his hand and pinching his thin forehead.

"No, _you_ do not understand, sir, that I cannot just let –" I cleared my throat and hastily looked up with what I hoped was an engaging smile as a young lady, perhaps two or three years older than I, stopped in front of me. "Yes, miss, may I help you?"

I wondered absently if the young man she was purchasing the handkerchiefs for was her father or brother, for she was rather pretty…until I saw a diamond winking from her left hand. _Blast. _

Finally she departed, and I picked up where I had ended with the lunatic sitting complacently behind my counter. "I can't let you stay there – I could get myself thrown out on my ear if Uncle found out!"

"I thought you wanted to be rid of this apprenticeship anyhow?" he pointed out sensibly, his grey eyes twinkling silvery as he looked up at me. The nerve of the man!

"I – I – well, yes, but – I still can't let you just sit there and – oh…" I gulped as a familiar figure materialized in front of me out of the holiday gloom. "Good evening, Doctor."

I heard a faint repressed snort of amusement from the man sitting close to my legs and sent a booted toe his direction, hoping against hope I would connect with something, preferably that would cause pain. Unfortunately, the fellow is so thin one could make shots in the dark all day and never hit him.

"Good evening," the physician responded pleasantly enough. He spent several seconds in removing his gloves and neatly folding them in half before putting them in his overcoat pocket. "Sorry to see you've not had an easier time of it with the last-minute shopping, lad. I'm not helping matters, am I?"

The good-naturedness that fairly radiated in a holiday golden glow from the fellow was most welcome after a long day, and I found myself smiling despite the fact that I was half-dead on my feet and trying to conceal London's most bizarre shopper behind my counter.

"Quite all right, Doctor. Actually there has been only one customer today that has really given me trouble out of the ordinary." I resisted the urge to glare at the sniggering gentleman crouched beside me, merely bit my tongue and forced the smile to remain upon my face. "I've that merchandise ready for you to look at, Doctor, if you'll be so kind as to wait a moment."

The man nodded and began to absently but reverently thumb through a fine leather-bound volume of Shakespeare that sat upon a nearby book table, and I sent the Holmes fellow a silent warning to not touch anything or I would give him away on the instant before disappearing momentarily to retrieve the heavy Penang-lawyer from the back.

I had nearly reached my department once more when it occurred to me – in all probability this thing was to be a gift for the ridiculous Holmes fellow; he was rather over six feet and looked the type to enjoy a lethal weapon as a Christmas gift.

This situation grew very rapidly more amusing and bizarre with each passing moment.

When I returned, Mr. Holmes was looking highly uneasy and had his eyes nearly rolled up into his skull from attempting to see where the Doctor was without moving his head or making any noise. 'Twould serve him jolly well right if his eyes stuck like that.

The Doctor carefully closed the Shakespeare volume and set it aside as I returned to hand the heavy walking-stick over the counter for his inspection. He lifted it and gave a sudden exclamation, hastily switching it from his left hand to his right…odd, perhaps his left was weaker for some reason. For a moment he tested its balance, happily oblivious to the wary looks that passing men and the admiring looks that passing women were casting his direction. Then he smiled and glanced back to me with a nod of approval.

"That's perfect," he declared with a sense of relief I was well-acquainted with in customers this late in the shopping season. "Is it too late to have it engraved, with Christmas Eve being tomorrow?"

"Not at all," I replied, beginning to add up the total on a piece of paper and calculate the difference in cost for the engraving. "But it won't be ready until tomorrow afternoon, and we close at six for the holiday."

"That's all right, then. Have you a paper for me to fill out or something?"

"Yes, here. I'd keep it to three lines, probably less, considering the surface area of the plate," I said helpfully and pushed the appropriate form across the counter.

Mr. Holmes was craning his neck to peek and see what it was that the Doctor was paying for, but this time my toe connected with flesh and he gave a sort of stifled yip and settled back, glaring the promise of a slow and torturous grey death at me.

The Doctor paused, cocking his head to one side like a puppy listening for a chow-whistle. "Did you hear something, Master Timothy?"

"No, sir," I replied, the picture of helpful innocence. "Probably a child over in the toy section, they can be rather raucous when excited."

"I'll wager you grow weary of it after a while this time of year, eh?" He nodded sympathetically, scribbling quickly but neatly (specially for a doctor, as the only ones I've ever seen have a scrawl that makes David's seven-year-old letters look like copper plate) on the paper.

I shrugged easily. "It's a job. And to be frank, some adults are far worse – one would think they were adolescents in an adult body, the way _some_ people carry on. Ow!" I ended with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp as something pinched my leg in reaction to my veiled comment, made for the benefit of the eccentric at my feet.

The Doctor's eyebrows rose an inch or two at my outcry. "You all right, lad?"

"Erm…yes, quite," I muttered. I could feel my face flushing; that Holmes fellow was _so_ _very dead_ as soon as I had his money in the till. "I thought…I thought something ran over my foot; we've had a mouse problem due to the number of chocolates and so on."

Ridiculous and humiliatingly effeminate explanation, but it was the best I could come up with on such short time to cogitate an excuse. I need not have worried, however, for apparently the doctor is so honest that he gives everyone the benefit of the doubt; he merely nodded and continued his scribbling, biting his lip as he searched his mind for the proper phrase.

I took his distraction as an opportunity to send my darkest warning look (one that could have Estella in tears within three and a half seconds – I had timed it down to a science) at the maniac huddled long-limbed behind my counter, only to receive a frantic look in return, accompanied by some ridiculous hand-signals that I had absolutely no interpretation of what he was trying to say. Seeing my confusion, Mr. Holmes sighed through his nose in (undeserved) exasperation, and then he made a clenched fist and moved it in an up-an-down gesture that looked like manning a water-pump.

Oh. Pump the doctor for information about a Christmas present. Psh, I was not going to make a fool of myself for the sake of an eccentric genius hiding behind my counter; he would get what he could get, thank you very much.

"There we are, I think that will do…what do you think?" the Doctor asked hesitantly, pushing the paper over to me. I inspected it and grinned inwardly, for the inscription was to a _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_.

Honestly, what type of dreadful mother would name her child _Sherlock_? I would never complain about bearing the name Timothy Cratchett again, I could tell you that right off.

"Very nicely, Doctor. Could I interest you in anything for yourself?" I gave the gentleman a verbal nudge whilst attaching the paper to the walking-stick and beginning to add up the total.

"After what I spent on that present? Not a chance," he laughed ruefully.

"Nothing at all?"

"No, lad. I am sorry to have you waste your sales pitch, but I'm afraid much else in this store is slightly beyond my means at the present," he chuckled, reaching inside his snow-speckled overcoat to remove his cheque-book from an inside pocket.

I received an elbow to the side of the knee and sent a helpless look toward the idiot crouched behind my counter. What the devil else was I supposed to do, say "By the way, Doctor, a friend of yours asked me what you want for Christmas"? Come on, now.

I had thought that the evening could not possibly get any more bizarre, but as seems to be the pattern every time I make the colossal mistake of thinking such, the night began to spiral into an even more bizarre and barely controllable tailspin.

When Mr. Sherlock Holmes decided to shift his weight from his numb legs, this apparent genius accidentally tipped over the fully-stocked hat-stand – straight onto the Doctor and me and the collection of Christmas music boxes.

* * *

_To be concluded._


	5. Chapter 5

_Last chapter! Thank you, everyone who reviewed this little piece of randomness! Hope your Christmas and the other holidays you may have celebrated were wonderful and that your New Year's continues that trend!_

_On a personal and more serious note, for the Christians reading this: I would greatly appreciate your prayers for the family of two friends of mine from college. They had just graduated last May, were married in August, and just a couple of weeks ago found out they were expecting. Early Christmas morning they were hit head-on by a car spinning out of control across the median on the ice, and were killed. Of course the families are grieving as are their friends, specially this time of year, and so prayers for them would be of great comfort to us all. Thank you very much._

_Now, on to the last bit of this insanity..._

_

* * *

_

During the many hours upon hours upon hours upon days that Uncle drilled into my head suitable methods of dealing with customers, proper service and representation, how to dispel crankiness in buyers if merchandise were out of stock, store policies on returning items that had obviously been used and abused, etc., etc. – throughout all those many lessons, I would be willing to swear on my copy of _A Christmas Carol_ that there was nary a line on how to properly deal with a customer hiding behind one's counter and then tipping over a heavy oaken hat-stand, at least twenty hats, and several ornate gilt music boxes.

In consequence, my limbs seemed to freeze in one of those dear-heaven-this-cannot-possibly-be-happening-to-me-and-if-I-close-my-eyes-surely-it-will-go-away moments when the above scenario shattered what could have been merely a chaotic night; evidently the line between chaotic and Bedlamic is very fine indeed and said line had long since blurred undistinguishably.

My horror-frozen arms thawed in time to prevent the three closest music boxes from crashing to bits behind my counter (though not in time to prevent off-key renditions of _God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen _and _Silent Night_ from chiming tinnily to draw further attention to the melee), and the Doctor neatly caught the other two, one in each hand, stopping twenty pounds six shillings' worth of tawdry holiday merchandise from shattering on the floorboards.

My exclamation of relief turned into one of dismay by virtue of the fact that the hat-stand continued its descent and clouted the Doctor square on the side of the head and shoulder, knocking him backward into a sprawling heap on the floor, as soundly as if he'd been decked by a prizefighter.

I resisted the urge to swear, due to the gathering crowd, and turned to the cause of all the trouble – only to find that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had decided to take himself off (the coward!) before I applied that wonderfully heavy Penang-lawyer to his skull. I moaned in despair at setting this matter right without drawing attention, for a curious crowd had already begun to clot around my area like alley dogs after a ham bone. I hopped out from behind the counter and pushed my way to the aid of my fallen customer.

"All right, ladies, gentlemen – a little room if you please!" I shouted, trying to diffuse calmness into the mutters and exclamations of the tittering onlookers. "Just a slight accident, those things happen when the store is crowded. Please, just go about your shopping – everything is under control! One side, if you please, ma'am."

Disgusting vultures and busybodies. What is it about misfortune that makes it so magnetically attractive to everyone but the poor chap to whom the mishap occurs?

After I shouted again, the crowd began to mill about and slowly dissipate after seeing that there was no blood on the floor or physicians and/or police being called for (yet). Finally I managed to shove aside a fat old gentleman in tweeds, who placidly plucked two of the fallen hats from the mass and waddled off with them in search of a mirror.

The pile of headgear was moving feebly, and as I hauled the hat-rack upright once more the caps and bowlers tumbled about in a felt and wool cascade to reveal my customer, his face flushed in high mortification. Poor chap, it was not his fault his lunatic friend had decided to experiment in covert rudeness.

"I saved the music boxes at least," he muttered ruefully as I dropped upon one knee beside him to ascertain if he needed medical assistance (oh, the store policies that would have to be filled out if that were the case…this would _not_ be good at all…).

I hastily thanked the Doctor and removed the items from his hands, set them with an indignant _plink_ upon the counter, and then looked back to him. The poor fellow was wincing and rubbing his right shoulder as if it pained him – which was not surprising, for that hat-rack was deucedly heavy – and shaking his head unsteadily as if feeling a fit of dizziness.

"Are you hurt, Doctor?" I put my hand under the gentleman's elbow to help him stagger stiffly to his feet.

"I don't believe so, not seriously," he muttered after a moment, though it did not escape my notice that he was forced to catch his balance against the lip of the counter. His face was a bit pinched and slightly peaky, though, and I wondered at the truthfulness of the gentleman's assurances. His friend had said he was a veteran, I remembered; so perhaps he was accustomed to dealing with pain. Even so.

"I'm dreadfully sorry about this, Doctor," I endeavoured to apologise, though it was not my fault certainly! Mr. Holmes was going to have a deal to answer for; if he thought I was going to take the fall for this he was madder than my Aunt Hermoine at a full moon.

And what kind of a man does something like that to a friend – if the Doctor really were a friend to that blackguard, which would be a small Christmas miracle in itself – and then flees the scene?

I bent to collect as many of the hats as I could and began to dump them behind the counter to clear the pathway; already three or four of the smaller cloth caps were being trampled upon and kicked to other departments by careless (and just plain ordinary rude) shoppers who were hurrying to get their purchases made before closing time. My customer made to assist me in my headgear retrieval but straightened up with a muffled exclamation of pain, and I hastily waved him off.

"No, no, Doctor, please. I must apologise to you, sir; someone must have tipped the rack over and had the rudeness to run off afterwards." I spoke with sincerity, for the man looked a bit pale yet; perhaps he was indeed hurt after all. In fact I should be surprised if he were not, for that sturdiest of hat-racks could _flatten_ someone my size (not that I had physically tested that hypothesis on myself).

"Not as if it was your fault, lad." The fellow sighed and absently moved the music-boxes back to their original positions as they finally tinkled out the last few bars in an increasingly slowing chime. Then the Doctor reached across the counter for his cheque-book with his right hand, and I saw his face pale suddenly; the poor chap now had _two_ game shoulders or arms, from the look of things. Worried, I scooted the book across to him with one hand and re-hung the final derby on the hat-rack with the other.

"Thank you," he breathed, tearing off the paper in question and handing it back to me.

"More than welcome, Doctor. This should be ready for you to pick up tomorrow afternoon," I replied, placing the cheque in its appropriate position in the till and shutting the drawer securely. "You'll pardon me, sir, but I would suggest you take a cab; if you don't mind my saying so that hat-stand was dashed heavy and you look a bit off."

The physician's bright eyes suddenly glinted around the edges with a smile as warm and brown as hot cocoa, and just as welcomed on a night like this. "Thank you, lad, but I'm to meet my friend only just down the street for dinner…gracious, I am late already." He frowned in dismay, replacing his pocket-watch with a noticeable wince. "Thank you for your help, Master Cratchett; you were indeed the Spirit of Christmas Giving to this inexperienced gentleman," he rejoined with the slightest of mischievous smiles, pulling his gloves on as he spoke.

I grinned, not offended in the least. "If I am not here tomorrow to see you because of being moved to the stockroom or worse due to the fiasco this evening, then have a Happy Christmas, sir."

The doctor laughed and returned the greeting with the sort of heartfelt warmth that made one believe he meant it, every word, rather than just voicing the expected pleasantry as most of the populace did this Yuletide. He raised his stick briefly to his hat in a smart half-salute of farewell and then hurried through the crowd toward the door. I watched and moved to the left slightly so as to be within eyesight of the windows, just to ascertain he made the street without mishap; though the gentleman obviously was in no danger of fainting (not a man of that obvious strength), he doubtless was feeling a bit unsteady.

He did safely reach the street, however, and seemed to be in fine form; I watched as he tipped his hat slowly to two smiling, fur-enveloped young ladies before crossing carefully between traffic and disappearing in the swirling snow.

I turned with a smile and an air of relief (both strange, for usually I could not care one whit about when or where or how my customers left, so long as they _did_ leave) and returned more cheerfully to my department. I had only just finished hanging the last top-hat back on the stand (deuced stiff things refused to stay put and had to be balanced individually on the pegs) when I turned around – only to run smack into the fellow that had started the entire nuisance in the first place.

I was not exactly thrilled (oh yes, I am a qualified master of understatement) to see the dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and my demeanor no doubt said so for he bristled defensively before my lips could part in an effort to have him forcibly removed from the premises.

"I didn't intend to cause that infernal thing to topple over!" he snapped crossly, sending me a glare that made me physically restrain an urge to squirm despite my irritation. In retrospect, I can now see that the fellow has an odd hypnotic power about him that automatically makes one want to cringe even if one has done nothing wrong. He would make a formidable headmaster for a troubled boys' school, I can attest to that most emphatically.

However, just at that moment I was far too infuriated with him to be thinking such thoughts. Or anything else that was polite and cheerful and befitting a holiday clerk.

"Be that as it may, you _did_ cause it, and your friend – if he really is your friend, sir, which heaven alone would know why – no doubt has at least a bruised shoulder from it," I retorted with heat. Courtesy be hanged; someone had to tell the man how insufferable he could be, and judging from his attitude not many people had ever dared do so. What was he going to do to me, choke me in full view of twenty witnesses? Psh.

My irritation dissipated slightly when the fellow's brows screwed together and met in a fearsome black line, and his hand that had been resting atop the counter suddenly clenched. "What?" His eyes began to quietly bore a hole in my head, and I took a step backward to cool my skull.

"It fell right on top of him," I replied dryly. "Not that you cared enough to ascertain the consequences for your actions."

"I didn't – I mean – ohhh…" the fellow moaned and swore softly (in English this time). I watched as he pinched his thin nose and then looked back up at me. All defensiveness had apparently fled from his eyes, and he actually looked legitimately sorry; whether that were genuine or as much a charade as the rest of him was yet to be proven. "Was he hurt badly?"

I shrugged and folded my arms, and only just in time remembered to lean against the counter to hide the Doctor's walking-stick from his view. "He _said_ he was not, but if you ask me he looked a bit off when he left. Said he was meeting a friend for dinner – not you, by any chance?" Mr. Holmes winced visibly, and I smirked. "The stand knocked him upside the head and shoulder."

"His left?"

"No, the right."

I started as the fellow gave vent to another oath, causing an elderly gentleman passing by to peer at him in utter disgust and growl something about "young people these days." The Holmes chap sagged against the counter, his horrendously self-important defenses deflating before my eyes into the helplessness I had seen the first time he slunk into the emporium yesterday eve. He slouched miserably and put his forehead in his hand, his thin elbow resting on the glass.

"Wonderful…" he moaned, massaging absently at his temple. "Now I've made matters even worse."

"Yes, you have," I agreed wickedly, very much enjoying the look of imminent death he darted at me after I said so. He gave as good as he got, and I was completely disregarding of his irritation.

"And I am late to meet him, too," Mr. Holmes growled, glaring at his small pocket-watch as if it were solely responsible for the night's string of mishaps. "What in all blazes am I supposed to do now?"

"I would prefer you buy a Christmas gift and move on to wreak havoc in someone else's department or emporium rather than mine," I interjected with a raised eyebrow.

"You are a most impertinent young fellow, you know that?"

I blinked calmly at the growling gentleman, not fazed in the least. "And you are a most difficult customer, sir. Now. What can I wrap up for you?"

For a moment the man stared at me, and then the stormy darkness of his eyes swirled and lightened into a more calm grey. At last he laughed, casting off his irritation and swinging without hesitation into calm geniality so swiftly that I wondered if he might possibly be affected by changes in the atmosphere or something. I have known people prone to rapid mood swings (my Aunt Hermoine for one, who could go from petting the cat lovingly one second to chasing Uncle through the billiard-room with a red-hot poker the next with absolutely no provocation), but this fellow had the shortest mental/mood attention span I had ever come in contact with.

"I really cannot fathom anything at all," drawled he pensively, inspecting one of the gilt music boxes upon the counter with a disgusted curl of the lips and hastily yanking his hand back when it gave a warning _twing_. "Are you quite certain the Doctor did not say anything he wanted, or looked more than once at something?"

"Other than the antique handguns?"

Mr. Holmes started and raised an eyebrow, and then chuckled. "He would. Yes, other than that; I doubt either of us need any more firearms in the house. My landlady would probably evict us both if I purchased another, after I accidentally shot the corners off the banister rail last Thursday..."

I decided to ignore that last statement, for I doubted we had minutes enough before closing time to explain it in such a way as to make sense to my poor normal brain. My eye suddenly fell upon the nearby book table. "Well, he did look at this more than once, Mr. Holmes," I answered contemplatively, moving round the counter to the table and indicating the leather-bound Shakespeare.

"He did?" The man appeared highly puzzled. "He already has at least one complete copy. A bit dog-eared, but I know he possesses one."

I laughed and ran a finger along the fine rich binding, for a moment savouring the smell of the leather and ink and paper. "Mr. Holmes, a writer, or a reader for that matter, collects books for the sheer joy of having them. A true bibliophile has one set of books he reads from, that he can make notes in or fold corners down in, and another set for display, the satisfaction of possession."

I received a blank look for my pains in explaining the popularity of the particular item; 'twas far too heavy to be read from regularly, but a most handsome volume and a quite popular gift among the peers of the realm whose sole purpose in obtaining reading material was to allow it to collect dust in stuffed and dreamless mansion libraries.

"The joy of _what_?" my customer asked incredulously. Judging from the look adorning his thin face, he thought me to be in the same category as I was placing him – namely, mentally unsound at best, stark raving mad at the worst.

"Trust me, Mr. Holmes; if he enjoys books –"

"Oh, believe me, he has altogether too many of them," he interrupted me with the same tone my mother always used when finding my scribble-pads under the sofa cushions.

"Then he will very much enjoy this. Shall I ring it up for you?"

The detective glanced at the price tag, pulled a most childish face, and bit his lower lip for a moment. All he needed now was to voice a snarled "humbug" to complete the picture of being a positive Scrooge.

"Shall I read to you the total cost for engraving the item you overheard him purchasing for you?" I queried slyly. I had learnt quite rapidly just in this one holiday season that guilt (and just as often a desire to out-do another) was often a motivating factor in nudging a person to purchase a Christmas gift they did not originally intend to spend so much upon.

Something akin to a faint blush of shame filled the gentleman's sallow face and he hastily shook his head. "No, no, I'll take it," he said hurriedly, hefting the volume and muttering something about it being 'more dashed heavy than any book has a right to be' and that he 'had better not find it lying about in his chemicals'…whatever that was supposed to mean.

"Very good," said I. "As you are running late yourself and the store closes in fifteen minutes, I shall make haste; would you like it to be wrapped in special paper?" I suited the action to the word and began hastily ringing up the item, for I knew that the last five or ten minutes of a store's shopping hours seemed to cause a panic and people would be positively swamping my counter in less than three hundred seconds.

"Special paper?"

"Holiday wrapping paper? Red or gold or silver or something equally Christmasy?" I glanced up from my work in some disbelief at the man's absolute cluelessness. This was a hopeless case; why was I even bothering with the man?

"Erm…no, brown is perfectly fine," the man muttered, fidgeting with his coat buttons and drumming his fingers upon the counter-top. "I've no desire to draw attention to the blasted thing." The fellow fingered the book absently and flipped carefully through a few beautifully-lettered pages as I added up the total.

"Don't forget to inscribe it when you get home, sir," I reminded the man, for I doubted – nay, disbelieved for fact – that he was the type to think of such a matter.

"Do not forget to do _what_?"

"Inscribe it – write on the inside cover some personal message to your friend." I took the chap's money and began making change even as he stared at me in some confusion, his thin lips pursed up in deep concentration.

"Write in it? Why on earth would I deface a book in new condition?" he inquired curiously.

"It's not defacing it," I replied with a weary sigh. "Here you are, three shillings sixpence change, sir. It isn't defacing it, Mr. Holmes; rather it is quite the time-honoured tradition to write a personal message inside the front cover of a gift of this sort."

"Oh…really?" The man looked at the book dubiously.

I shook my head desperately, took the tome from him, and began hastily wrapping it in brown paper, as the store was beginning to spread the word that closing time was drawing nigh (thank the Spirits). I rooted for a moment to find the twine and nodded to my customer. "Quite, Mr. Holmes. Just something to make it a more personal gift, you know."

"Ah, I see. Erm…have you any suggestions what one normally writes in such occasions, besides _Happy Christmas_?"

I eyed the man over the top of the parcel for a moment, forgetting to withdraw my finger from the twine bow and pinching off my appendage's blood supply for a fractional second. "You might try starting with an apology for tipping over a hat-stand onto the poor fellow." I grinned at the gentleman's sudden discomfiture and shoved the parcel across the counter toward him.

"But…" The fellow spluttered for a few seconds but finally gave a dismal sigh and nodded resignedly. "Now must I carry this enormous book around with me all evening?!"

"We do deliver, for a fee," I answered, "but most _normal_ people enjoy carrying their gift parcels around."

Mr. Holmes completely either missed or disregarded my subtle emphasis of the word _normal_. "Why, in heaven's name?" he gasped. Those eyebrows bounced up to greet his hairline briefly before settling back into knitted position.

I smiled and tapped the package with a finger. "It gives one a warm and Christmasy feeling, knowing one is carrying about a present for a friend. Try it – this is what the season is all about."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Try it, Mr. Holmes," I said with a grin, motioning to the parcel taking up undue space on my counter. "You might surprise yourself with feeling something."

I received a rather rude snort for my pains in educating the man about the meaning of Christmas (and feeling rather like a foolish literary character as I did; surely this sort of thing does not happen to every clerk in real life?), but my customer growled something unintelligible and lifted the parcel, tucking it securely under his thin arm like Jacobson carrying the mannequins for his clothing department. For a moment the gentleman stood there, waiting expectantly, and I watched in great amusement at his anticipatory tension.

Finally a small smile crossed his face and he looked back at me, with his eyes twinkling and an abrupt change of voice that again made me wonder at the man's spastic attention span.

"Well, Master Timothy, I have much to thank you for, the least of which involves not getting me thrown out of here for the mess I caused earlier this evening," said he, his smile widening at me until the corners of his eyes gently crinkled. "If you should ever find yourself in need of the services of a private consulting detective, do call upon me. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street."

When the blazes would I need a private detective for _anything_? But as a dutiful store clerk I nodded solemnly and committed the information to memory in case I did get thrown out of my apprenticeship for the transgressions he had coerced me into committing of late; blackmailing would always remain open as a viable option were I short of a position and cash.

The man tucked his precious package more firmly under his arm, mashed his top hat snugly down upon his head against the bitter wind, nodded smartly at me, and completely ignored my tentative "Compliments of the season to you, sir," merely striding straight out the door without even a final glance at any of the holiday cheer.

I stared after him for a moment, wondering just how much more bizarre a holiday shopping season could get, until my attention was demanded by other customers, who were (thankfully) considerably closer to normality than Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson had been.

By the time I realised, some years later, just whom I had served that December in 1881, Mr. Sherlock Holmes's name had become a household word in London and indeed the entire country; and no longer did I wonder at the man's brilliant genius and eccentric habits, that had appeared to a child of fifteen to be so outrageously extraordinary.

In later years, "The game's afoot" would become as well known to any literate person as my literary namesake's constantly pious phrase of "God bless us, everyone," and those two men would become more loved by the common people than Charles Dickens's characters ever could dream of being.

And so it was some six years later, when I did find myself badly in need of the eccentric detective's services, that I had the pleasure and privilege of calling upon Mr. Sherlock Holmes for aid. Both he and the Doctor were of inestimable help and comfort, respectively, in clearing my name of a ghastly charge against it, and I remain to this day greatly in their debts for services rendered.

But that is another story.

* * *

_Finis! Thank you for reading!_


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